Offseason Topic: "Intestinal Requirements" while driving

bradgator2

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Wet wipes are in my truck at all times.

Wet wipes are in my desk at all times.

And I am also a runner. Abso-fuking-lutely are wet wipes with me on every run. Im on very private trails. I have zero problems exploding into the woods. I’ve tried to make it home before.... it’s not worth the unbelievable agony.
 

MJMGator

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Wet wipes are in my truck at all times.

Wet wipes are in my desk at all times.

And I am also a runner. Abso-fuking-lutely are wet wipes with me on every run. Im on very private trails. I have zero problems exploding into the woods. I’ve tried to make it home before.... it’s not worth the unbelievable agony.
C’mon man. Where’s your sense of adventure?
 
Jun 2, 2015
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Ok, now I understand why Gator rival fans feel the Gators are full of xxxx!!! LOL. This is why I really like this board......It is never boring and some of the subject matter is really off the grid, but totally interesting and entertaining.
 

gingerlover

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#metoo

Similar situation - trying not to destroy the small bathroom in the apartment of a girl I had just started dating....I feigned a trip to the "clubhouse" in her complex only finding it locked while the staff was out to lunch.
Went back to her apartment and said ..."Forgot about something at my place...gotta do a thing... err...I'll be back!"

Shouting Tourette's style all the way home, I got as far as the parking lot when the dam burst and my shorts became my porta-potty. To avoid seat contamination, I drove the rest of the way into a space while slightly elevated and trying to do the whole clutch, shifting thing. Needless to say, there was a nice skidmark in the seat...
I ran into the apartment and finished the job... took a shower... tried to clean the seat and come up with some type of reasonable excuse for my hurried departure.
Whatever I had eaten stained the seat but I was giving the car to my brother anyway... and hey, it's your brother, who cares right?
Pro-Tip: Never pass up a bathroom - and McDonald's/Burger Kings are always a port in the storm.
Being on the road as much as I have been the last 15 years I've learned to try and find the nearest Publix, Walgreens or Target. If you have to use a Walmart go to the one in the back of the store.
 

gingerlover

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The irony of this thread as I had this tonight. Wife is out of town for the weekend so I took my son to Disney after I picked him up. Everything was fine and about 10 minutes into our drive home right around the time I got on the 417 the first contraction started. My son at the time was still awake so I should have stopped, but thought they were far enough apart that I could make it no worries. About 15 minutes from my exit the real pain began. The type where you ship and lift hoping it will releave pressure. It went away for a few minutes and then right around the time I got off my exit the ungodly pain started. This is the type where you pray to God to give you another 15 minutes to make it home before you pop. I hit every single red light and the gas started sneaking out. Pulled into my driveway and had a choice to make. Lock the car and run inside safely or grab the snoring kid first and risk crapping in my front yard. I gave him one good check, locked the car, and bolted inside. Thank goodness he didn't wake up to me not being there.
 

jeeping8r

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Wet wipes are in my truck at all times.

Wet wipes are in my desk at all times.

And I am also a runner. Abso-fuking-lutely are wet wipes with me on every run. Im on very private trails. I have zero problems exploding into the woods. I’ve tried to make it home before.... it’s not worth the unbelievable agony.

Great, Now I have to watch my step in Marion county :)
 

bradgator2

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Being on the road as much as I have been the last 15 years I've learned to try and find the nearest Publix, Walgreens or Target. If you have to use a Walmart go to the one in the back of the store.

For emergency driving situations.... the absolute best, cleanest, and most private bathrooms are in the lobby of any major chain hotel. Just walk right in like you are staying there.

You are welcome.
 

Kyng

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Don't you love when this happens? I once managed to finish ****ting before my ass even hit the toilet seat.
 

soflagator

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Please for the love of God, football season cant' get here soon enough.

There’s a lot of correlation between this thread and our recent seasons. Just as I’m drawn in each year, I find it hard to not at least give every thread a chance. But like games in the fall, each post seems to be more disturbing than the last, and I find myself hoping it all just ends quickly so I don’t have to look any more.
 

TLB

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Most memorable recent experience was a family hike with the wife, my daughter of 9 at the time, and my son who was 6. We should start by acknowledging that I hate hiking. My wife loves to take the two of us, or the whole family, hiking - an activity I refer to as "Death Marches." Next, we have the obligatory "EVERYONE better go before we leave the house because there may not be restrooms on the trail"...which is obviously ignored by my son and daughter. I went twice before leaving the house, because I know how my body works.

We are 15 min into the hike, enough to know going back to a parking lot without any facilities is useless, and that given the amenities thus far you will have your selection of trees anywhere along the trail. This is when my son informs me he has to go. I meekly ask "Number One?" to which he shakes his head "No." Let the expletives flow, mother and children be damned.

Knowing he is six, there's no chance he can squat and miss his pants around his ankles...he'll fill them up, of that I am sure. So I find a tree about 4-5" thick that is bent over. I put his pants around his ankles and sit him on the bent tree hoping he will drop on the backside free and clear while I hold him up there from falling off and keep my own body out of the drop zone. This works, at first. Then he informs me he has to pee as well. There isn't enough room to point the fire hose down with his butt on the back side of the tree, and if he aims forward over the tree it'll end up all over his pants as well. What to do, what to do? I lift him off the tree, hold him by the armpits, body and legs down with pants around ankles and tell him to aim forward while I'm trying my best to stay standing. He's halfway through the liquid portion of our entertainment when he says he's not done pooping...like, right NOW. Expletives become free form poetry, often with made up words as the English language fails to reach the emotional level I'm trying to convey.

I told him to hold that back side shut, finish the front job first. He does, we return to sitting position on the bent tree and wrap up the finale of our presentation. As to custodial work....we are woefully unprepared. Being the family Sherpa, I have four bottles of water, two hats, and no TP or wipes. So as the man who must sacrifice for the family (again) I find myself removing a shoe and giving up my right sock hoping that it will suffice lest I have to lose both socks. It does. Said sock is left as a warning marker for future hikers.

To give the epilogue, the hike was recommended by the wife's friend as 'not bad', and turned out to be an hour up the side of a mountain where the trail is mostly climbing boulders waist high to me and chest or head high to the kids (lifting them up becomes required). Brutal for a fat ass like myself. We get to the top of "Flat Rock" where there is indeed a flat rock about 15' sticking out off the top of the mountain providing a glorious view of the PA farmlands should you really give a sht about that in the first place. I do not. Even better, over the years I have developed a hyper sense of fear regarding being safe, especially when I feel responsible for two kids. This 15' outcropping has no rails, guides, nothing at all of safety to prevent you from walking out to look and stumbling, then falling 100' to the rocks below. As a compromise, I make the kids lay on their bellies and belly crawl out to look around, while I lay on my belly with my feet always touching the mountain and my arms outstretched with a death grip on their belts - that's as far as they are allowed out, until I drag them back in. Yay...let us begin the death march back down the mountain with broken blisters on my right foot, over the boulders, past the sht sock, and to the car where we can drive home and I can punch this 'friend' in the face for her 'not bad' recommendation to my wife.
 

TLB

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Personally, I do know my body pretty damned well at this age with everything I put it through over the years. I've learned to listen when it is telling me something is coming, what it is and how soon, and in turn I do my best not to put it in bad situations.

However, medications can at times change perceived gas leaks into surprise deposits in one's shorts. As such, I now keep a sandwich size zip-loc in my car with a fresh pair of underwear at ALL times and have used them at least twice over the years. Likewise, I keep a glove box full of napkins, just in case.

I've learned to get over my concern of a 'nice, clean bathroom' and work with anything that has working plumbing, regardless of smell, floors, walls, or surrounding environment. Because, when you typically have 45-75min for your commute home, you know you won't have a lot of options on the way and you better go before you leave...and you better take what you can find along the way when your body informs you it has an immediate need to share something with you.
 

bradgator2

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This annual thread is always awesome.
I think zambo posted this story before:

Before a company goes public, the highest level executives embark on a multi-city tour with their investment bankers to drum up support for the upcoming IPO. This trip is called a roadshow and since the group will typically visit dozens of cities on a tight schedule, a private jet is the preferred means of transportation. During a roadshow, it's not unusual to visit two or three cities in a single day so work starts at the crack of dawn. That doesn't mean the group goes to bed early. Every night, the bankers treat their clients to a wild night out in whatever town they are in, complete with thousand dollar dinners and endless alcohol. No matter how hard the group parties the night before, the private jet will lift them off to their next destination very early the next morning.
Just for a minute, pretend you're an investment banker traveling with some very important clients on one of these roadshows. Now imagine that you spent the previous night drinking way beyond your limit only to be startled out of bed by a piercing 6:30 am wake up call. In an attempt to get your head and body feeling remotely human again, you scarf down some waffles, eggs, bacon and at least two glasses of coffee at the hotel's breakfast buffet before jumping on the shuttle to the private airport. Within a few minutes of arriving at the airport, your entire group is seated and the plane begins to taxi down the runway. At this point you might feel a bit of relief as the morning's blur subsides. All you have to do is sit back and relax for the one hour flight to the next city.
There's just one problem. In your rush to get out of the hotel, down to breakfast and onto the plane you forgot to do one very crucial thing. Go to the bathroom. And I'm not talking about peeing. You have a stomach full of dinner, desert, drinks, eggs, waffles and coffee churning around your lower intestine at 30,000 feet. But that's not the worst part. True horror sets in when you realize you're not on a spacious 20 person G5 with couches, beds, lay-z boys and a fully tucked away private bathroom. No, on this day you are traveling on a six-person puddle jumper sitting shoulder to shoulder with your clients and co-workers. But wait, somehow the story gets even worse…
 

bradgator2

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Just over halfway through the flight, all the coffee in my stomach feels like it's percolating its way down into my lower intestine. I hunker down and try and focus on other things. What feels like an hour, but probably isn't more than twenty minutes, passes. We then enter what turns out to be pretty violent turbulence. With each bounce, I have to fight my body, trying not to **** my pants. "Thirty minutes to landing, maybe forty five" I try and tell myself, each jostle a gamble I can't afford to lose. I signal to [the flight attendant] and she heads toward me.

"Excuse me, where is the bathroom, because I don't see a door?" I ask while still devoting considerable energy to fighting off what starts to feel like someone shook a seltzer bottle and shoved it up my ass. She looks at me, bemused, and says, "Well, we don't really have one per se." She continues, "Technically, we have one, but it's really just for emergencies. Don't worry, we're landing shortly anyway."

"I'm pretty sure this qualifies as an emergency," I manage to mutter through my grimace. I can see the fear in her face as she points nervously to the back seat. The turbulence outside is matched only by the cyclone that is ravaging my bowels. She points to the back of the plane and says, "There. The toilet is there." For a brief instant, relief passes over my face. She continues, "If you pull away the leather cushion from that seat, it's under there. There's a small privacy screen that pulls up around it, but that's it." At this point, I was committed. She had just lit the dynamite and the mine shaft was set to blow.

I turn to look where she is pointing and I get the urge to cry. I do cry, but my face is so tightly clenched it makes no difference. The "toilet" seat is occupied by the CFO, i.e. our ****ing client. Our ****ing female ****ing client!

Up to this point, nobody has observed my struggle or my exchange with the flight attendant. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." That's all I can say as I limp toward her like Quasimodo impersonating a penguin, and begin my explanation. Of course, as soon as my competitors see me talking to the CFO, they all perk up to find out what the hell I'm doing.
Given my jovial nature and fun-loving attitude thus far on the roadshow, almost everybody thinks I'm joking. She, however, knows right away that I am anything but and jumps up, moving quickly to where I had been sitting. I now had to remove the seat top – no easy task when you can barely stand upright, are getting tossed around like a hoodrat at a block party, and are fighting against a gastrointestinal Mt. Vesuvius.

I manage to peel back the leather seat top to find a rather luxurious looking commode, with a nice cherry or walnut frame. It had obviously never been used, ever. Why this moment of clarity came to me, I do not know. Perhaps it was the realization that I was going to take this toilet's virginity with a fury and savagery that was an abomination to its delicate craftsmanship and quality. I imagined some poor Italian carpenter weeping over the violently soiled remains of his once beautiful creation. The lament lasted only a second as I was quickly back to concentrating on the tiny muscle that stood between me and molten hot lava.

I reach down and pull up the privacy screens, with only seconds to spare before I erupt. It's an alka-seltzer bomb, nothing but air and liquid spraying out in all directions – a Jackson Pollock masterpiece. The pressure is now reversed. I feel like I'm going to have a stroke, I push so hard to end the relief, the tormented sublime relief.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." My apologies do nothing to drown out the heinous noises that seem to carry on and reverberate throughout the small cabin indefinitely. If that's not bad enough, I have one more major problem. The privacy screen stops right around shoulder level. I am sitting there, a disembodied head, in the back of the plane, on a bucking bronco for a toilet, all while looking my colleagues, competitors, and clients directly in the eyes. "Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!" briefly comes to mind.

I literally could reach out with my left hand and rest it on the shoulder of the person adjacent to me. It was virtually impossible for him, or any of the others, and by others I mean high profile business partners and clients, to avert their eyes. They squirm and try not to look, inclined to do their best to carry on and pretend as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, that they weren't sharing a stall with some guy crapping his intestines out. Releasing smelly, sweaty, shame at 100 feet per second.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry" is all the ashamed disembodied head can say…over and over again. Not that it mattered
 

bayou gator

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Just over halfway through the flight, all the coffee in my stomach feels like it's percolating its way down into my lower intestine. I hunker down and try and focus on other things. What feels like an hour, but probably isn't more than twenty minutes, passes. We then enter what turns out to be pretty violent turbulence. With each bounce, I have to fight my body, trying not to **** my pants. "Thirty minutes to landing, maybe forty five" I try and tell myself, each jostle a gamble I can't afford to lose. I signal to [the flight attendant] and she heads toward me.

"Excuse me, where is the bathroom, because I don't see a door?" I ask while still devoting considerable energy to fighting off what starts to feel like someone shook a seltzer bottle and shoved it up my ass. She looks at me, bemused, and says, "Well, we don't really have one per se." She continues, "Technically, we have one, but it's really just for emergencies. Don't worry, we're landing shortly anyway."

"I'm pretty sure this qualifies as an emergency," I manage to mutter through my grimace. I can see the fear in her face as she points nervously to the back seat. The turbulence outside is matched only by the cyclone that is ravaging my bowels. She points to the back of the plane and says, "There. The toilet is there." For a brief instant, relief passes over my face. She continues, "If you pull away the leather cushion from that seat, it's under there. There's a small privacy screen that pulls up around it, but that's it." At this point, I was committed. She had just lit the dynamite and the mine shaft was set to blow.

I turn to look where she is pointing and I get the urge to cry. I do cry, but my face is so tightly clenched it makes no difference. The "toilet" seat is occupied by the CFO, i.e. our ****ing client. Our ****ing female ****ing client!

Up to this point, nobody has observed my struggle or my exchange with the flight attendant. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." That's all I can say as I limp toward her like Quasimodo impersonating a penguin, and begin my explanation. Of course, as soon as my competitors see me talking to the CFO, they all perk up to find out what the hell I'm doing.
Given my jovial nature and fun-loving attitude thus far on the roadshow, almost everybody thinks I'm joking. She, however, knows right away that I am anything but and jumps up, moving quickly to where I had been sitting. I now had to remove the seat top – no easy task when you can barely stand upright, are getting tossed around like a hoodrat at a block party, and are fighting against a gastrointestinal Mt. Vesuvius.

I manage to peel back the leather seat top to find a rather luxurious looking commode, with a nice cherry or walnut frame. It had obviously never been used, ever. Why this moment of clarity came to me, I do not know. Perhaps it was the realization that I was going to take this toilet's virginity with a fury and savagery that was an abomination to its delicate craftsmanship and quality. I imagined some poor Italian carpenter weeping over the violently soiled remains of his once beautiful creation. The lament lasted only a second as I was quickly back to concentrating on the tiny muscle that stood between me and molten hot lava.

I reach down and pull up the privacy screens, with only seconds to spare before I erupt. It's an alka-seltzer bomb, nothing but air and liquid spraying out in all directions – a Jackson Pollock masterpiece. The pressure is now reversed. I feel like I'm going to have a stroke, I push so hard to end the relief, the tormented sublime relief.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." My apologies do nothing to drown out the heinous noises that seem to carry on and reverberate throughout the small cabin indefinitely. If that's not bad enough, I have one more major problem. The privacy screen stops right around shoulder level. I am sitting there, a disembodied head, in the back of the plane, on a bucking bronco for a toilet, all while looking my colleagues, competitors, and clients directly in the eyes. "Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!" briefly comes to mind.

I literally could reach out with my left hand and rest it on the shoulder of the person adjacent to me. It was virtually impossible for him, or any of the others, and by others I mean high profile business partners and clients, to avert their eyes. They squirm and try not to look, inclined to do their best to carry on and pretend as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, that they weren't sharing a stall with some guy crapping his intestines out. Releasing smelly, sweaty, shame at 100 feet per second.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry" is all the ashamed disembodied head can say…over and over again. Not that it mattered

Truly one of the greatest stories ever told. The Bible should be edited to make room for it... possibly a new chapter for the Book of Lamentations.
 
Jun 2, 2015
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OMG, these stories just keep getting better and better. It appears that some of you have very weak anus sphincter muscles that need tightening up.

I am very grateful to state I have not had such a situation in my nearly 80 years of life, however did have one incident in the 2nd grade that I have shamefully never forgotten. During an end-of-year test, I shifted positions at my desk and loudly passed gas. Being rather devious and quick minded, I immediately turned around and frowned at the boy in the desk behind me. I was elated when he did not return to that school the next year. For quite a few years, I actually thought he changed schools because of what I did.
 

Concrete Helmet

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Outside my bathroom door reads a sign that says "To the next one in may God have mercy on your soul".....I mean I can literally peel several layers of paint and wallpaper off bathroom walls and have nearly had HAZMAT crews called in behind me to clean up air born contaminants and obnoxious skidmarks that would make a 67 Pontiac GTO owner proud after consuming any of the following foods......Apples, spaghetti, chocolate and especially white chocolate and anything with heavy cream.....oh and last but not least ANYTHING that my MIL makes for dinner....

I would have to say though my worst case of explosive sh!ts did happen at quite an opportune time when putting my boat in at the Scottsmoor boat ramp several years back at about 4.45AM. It was a weekday so there was nobody else launching at the time and so I wasn't too worried about blocking the ramp with my truck and still trailered boat when I felt my stomach start to churn. I had already taken my usual morning deuce as I always do within 10 minutes of waking before leaving the house so I figured this was simply a quick follow up from the spicy jerk chicken wings and draft beer I had the night before......Boy was I ever wrong.....I simply refuse to put my ass completely down on a public toilet let alone a porta potti which was the facility of choice at this ramp...So there I am trying to keep my baggies around my knees instead of the urine soaked floor, tshirt and flip flops squatting down and getting ready to let fly. It was dark inside the outhouse so I guess I misjudged and thought I was closer to the bowl than I really was and I must have been leaning a little too far forward also :lol:....The jerk seasoning on last nights chicken wings had mostly liquefied the contents within my lower track and belly by this point because when I let go all I could hear was the sound of my sphincter powder coating the entire back part of the porta potti....I tried to stop it but the Vesuvius like eruption was not going to be denied. It was at this point I decided it would be better to push even harder so there wouldn't be any drippage on to me shorts :facepalm:.

I couldn't get out of there fast enough and back to my truck and boat to try and get it launched before anyone else pulled up to use the ramp. I made a clean get away and enjoyed a day of fishing. When I returned to the ramp I tied off and went to back the truck down. That's when I noticed someone had tied yellow tape all around the porta potti and hung a sigh that said out of order.....:lol2:
 

SaltyGator

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A few months ago we took the kids camping for my birthday weekend with a few friends and their families. What we didn't know was that there a stomach virus going around my daughters preschool. We got out to the campground and got everything setup and started cooking dinner. That night while we were sitting at dinner our daughter didn't really want to eat (keep in mind at this time we had no idea of what was going around). A few minutes later, vomit came out of here like a violent explosion, all over the dinner table. Now skip ahead 24 hours that included lots of vomit and diarrhea. My daughter is finally on the mend and we hope we're going to be able to enjoy the rest of the long camping weekend. Right before heading to bed for the evening, my wife gets a FB notification from the preschool that there is a bad stomach virus going around the school. By this time it's too late for us as we've all been confined in our travel trailer for the last 36 hours. I decide to stay up for a little while and sit out by the fire having a couple drinks with our friends (I had 2 stiff drinks).

I usually don't have a problem holding my liquor but about 2 am when I woke up with my stomach turning and mouth watering I got really concerned. I was actually hoping I drank too much and was sick from the alcohol. Unfortunately, that was not the case. Now, those of you who have ever had a motor home or travel trailer you know my impending dilemma. Not wanting to bury my head in a glorified porta potty I spend the next 3 hours dashing out side and puking behind the trailer hoping I'm not waking up all of our neighbors. Here's where the story ties into this thread.

If you recall earlier I mentioned the diarrhea my daughter was having. Well about 5 am I'm not very coherent and my memory was not functioning. For some unknown reason this time I decided to go to the back of the trailer and use the plastic throne as my vomit receptor. As I'm kneeling on both knees hugging and praying to the god of the plastic throne I felt the sudden to fart as well. During the midst of my stomach convulsions I decided a little toot couldn't hurt anything at this point. I clinched my cheeks trying to control the release of the noxious gas and slowly let a quick one escape. OOPS...seems I was mistaken. No gas there, just warm squishy diarrhea. Here I am, a 37 year old man and I just shat myself. Several options ran through my mind but I was in no shape nor did I have the energy to deal with it. I swallowed my pride, stood up, called for my wife to wake up and informed her I just shat myself. Yes honey, I need you to wake up and get me some clean clothes. At this point I felt too dirty and I decided I had to take a shower. As I walked to the showers (which were only a couple hundred yards away) I woke our neighbors up with the sound of dry heaves coming from right outside of their campers. I get to the shower, proceed to wash off while puking at the same time. As I finish up, I realize that in my confused state of mind I had forgotten a change of clothes AND my towel. I had to use my shirt as my towel and go commando and shirtless back to the trailer in 20 degree weather! It was friggin cold!!!

As I crawled back into the camper the most amazing thing happened. That was the moment I realized and got true confirmation that my wife REALLY loved me and was in it for the long haul. Yes friends, as I made my way back into the camper I noticed my wife had cleaned up my diarrhea clothes and bathroom mess and was waiting on me to see how I was doing, right then and there I knew we would die an old married couple. To quickly end the rest of the story the virus stayed with me the rest of the day and by the end of the day my wife and 1 year old son picked it up! Turns out the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my life was to care for my kids (and wife) when I was sick at the same time.
 

Zambo

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I simply refuse to put my ass completely down on a public toilet let alone a porta potti which was the facility of choice at this ramp
Princess, is there something special about that delicate little ass of yours that you think you're going to get ebola if it touches the same piece of plastic that some other ass touched recently? People like you ruining perfectly good public restrooms because they aren't potty trained is one of the scourges of our society. You're so worried about touching a germ you destroy the only place to take a crap in the vicinity. You probably go into a stall to take a piss instead of using a urinal and then don't even lift the seat and spray the place down like an out of control firehose.
 

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